Chapter 18

Mark Blakely was roused from a sound sleep shortly after noon by a keyed-up Steve Foster furiously shaking the exhausted young deputy, at the same time rasping in a coarse whisper: "For Christ sake, wake up will you, guy? Wake up... all hell's broken loose... !"

"Wha... ? What's wrong?" Mark confusedly stammered, bolting upright in the guest-room bed to stare blankly at his obviously distraught friend. "What the hell is it... ?"

"Easy, keep your voice down!" Steve gestured with his hand, still speaking under his breath. "I don't think we should upset the girls with it... ! Lydia Newell, she was attacked and gang raped this morning by two dogs from the wild-pack... right in broad daylight, for Christ's sake! The whole fucking town is up- in-arms... !"

"Jesus... !" Mark swore, his trained mind quickly shedding the web of sleep, his mental capacities immediately beginning to function. He swung from the bed and grabbed at the clothes he'd left draped over a chair. "Fill me in fast! How is Lydia?"

"Taking it well enough as near as I could make out," the red- bearded writer replied in hushed tone, stepping back and nervously lighting a cigarette while Mark dressed. "I was at the high school trying to talk to the Purcell girl when I saw this red sports car come screaming crazily into town. It figured to be something, so I jumped back into my wagon and followed it to the Town Hall. This slick, auburn-haired chick jumped out and ran, half staggering, inside to the Chief of Police's office with me and a half-dozen others not ten-feet behind her! Then, we all heard her spill it to Morgan! She'd been horseback riding, stepped down for a rest, and suddenly this Caesar bastard and another wild-mutt charged out of the woods and attacked her... just like that!"

"Two of them!" Mark half-choked. "She said they both raped her?"

"That's what she implied... chased her horse off and went at her!" Steve said, his eyes lighting with unhidable flecks of excitement at the thought. "Said she had to walk some three-miles back to her ranch... and she looked pretty disheveled, all right...

"How about her mental state?" Mark questioned, running a comb through his hair, then buckling on his holstered weapon.

"Christ, that was the part that got me, Mark!" Steve replied. "She was as composed as a queen at a coronation! Refused to see Doc Emory, or be treated in any way... just raging, fucking mad is all, and demanding that something be done!"

"That figures," Mark hissed drily, never surprised at any reaction from the stone-hearted girl who treated others as subservient, personal possesions. But... but raped by two of those wild bastards... ! Christ, if this was any indication of what could happen... ? "She was sure one of them was Caesar?"

"She swore one animal had a Roman medallion around its neck!" Steve answered, then: "Goddamn, Mark... how do a pair of dogs, wild or any other kind, fuck a woman? Shit, I mean... not only the actual approach, but where the hell does intelligence... the motivation come from?"

Mark ignored his guest's question. It struck too close to home. Instead, he said: "You're right about keeping it from the girls. Jean's in no condition for this kind of jolt. How is she, anyway, have you seen her?"

"I looked in. She's resting and Carol's with her."

"Good. We'll give them a little story and head down town," Mark said, scooping up his hat. "I don't like the sound of things at all, Steve. That wild-sonofabitch, Caesar... the brute's gone too far attacking Aaron Newell's daughter! God knows, any woman in the valley would have been horrible enough, but Lydia Newell! Damnit, what I've been trying to avoid all along may be well out of control now!"

"You mean, a hunting posse?" Steve pressed, butting his cigarette.

"I mean a bunch of drunken wild-men swarming over the hills and shooting at everything that moves!" Mark bitterly snapped, remembering the death of his own father... !

The bond of intimacy so fervidly born between Jean and Carol only hours before had brought a new dimension to their relationship that Jean neither understood, nor intended to question. She was solely contented that it existed. A warm smile, or an affectionate touch from Carol was sufficient to keep her new exciting emotions simmering without blatantly racing into a sensual consummation. That would simply happen at precisely the proper moment, she felt certain, and it would be beautifully fulfilling between them! As well, the blonde young wife was confident that their liaison would have no effect on their marriages; they both loved their husbands too much and were intellectual enough to understand the infatuating workings of bisexuality!

Privately, each had chosen separate moments to contemplate their revealed, sensuous feeling toward the other, but it was only Jean who tried to truly analyze them. Her long-time friend needed no self-acknowledgement: she had always been a little hot-box, and as well she had forever harbored secret lesbian desires toward Jean. Besides, her voluptuous blonde friend was not, after all, the first girl in her swinging life, was she... !

With Jean Blakely, her short interval of avid soul-searching had been somewhat different. Convinced now that she had been under the influence of some drug the night before, probably LSD, she was unceasingly conscious of the wanton passion it had unleashed within her, for lustful desire still smoldered in her warm belly and moistened loins like banked, hot coals, as if waiting to be stoked into roaring flames once more! Her mind continuously filled with vivid mental pictures of her own naked performance, her face lewdly nuzzled in Lydia Newell's exposed, wet loins, their heat, aroma, and taste as graphic to her senses as if she were still enframed between those long, white legs! God, was it any wonder that she should turn to beautiful Carol, her oldest and dearest friend, with such forbidden cravings awakened inside her?

Jean couldn't help but think of the many warning articles she had read concerning the hallucinogenic acid, of its untimely reoccurances, a chilling little tremor rippling through her young body as she lie there in the bed. Supposing that happened to her and she uncontrollably went into a... a fit of lesbian lust... ? God forbid, but should it happen, there was no one she'd rather have with her to make love to than, darling Carol! She had protected her, avoiding Mark's questions, even washed and cleansed away Link Morgan's raping sperm from her... her drenched pussy... !

God, she was getting all hot again just thinking and remembering! If Carol was in there with her at that very moment... but she wasn't; Jean could hear her washing dishes in the kitchen, and she, herself, was supposed to be napping, getting needed rest according to Doc Emory. That sweet old darling. Had he known... suspected? If he had, he hadn't shown it... simply blamed it all on the bump she'd received to her forehead... the throbbing lump she'd gotten from Link Morgan's huge fist when they thoght she was unconscious!

Damn them both! Why had they done it to her? It made no sense at all! Oh... she knew she was doing wrong in not telling Mark everything, but how could she? Even knowing the way they had drugged her, would he ever understand her uncontrollable acts with Lydia Newell? Link Morgan's raping her was one thing; though she hated to think what her husband would do to the vile brute if he knew! But he'd understand that wasn't her fault! With Lydia, she felt certain there'd be no such forgiveness! How many times had she heard him say that homosexual acts couldn't be forced onto anyone with an ounce of backbone! And he so deplored even the thought that up until the night with Caesar, she had been afraid to attempt oral sex with him, her own husband... !